


Secret Witness

by elareine



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Police, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Past Violence, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, description of crime scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 16:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19066771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/pseuds/elareine
Summary: Tim Drake is the youngest person to ever reach the rank of 'Detective' in Gotham's Homicide Division. Jason Todd is a security guard who found two bodies in a museum - and the prime suspect for their murder.The dead don't stay silent.(TV-style with one case per chapter.)





	1. Murder in the Museum

_They’re lying on the cold stone floor. Already their bodies are cooling. The woman’s head rests on the man’s arm - a lover’s position, assumed accidentally._

_The security guard’s footsteps sound nearby. It’s an ordinary, calm night for him. His nightly round doesn’t lead him through the room where the couple is lying. He hasn’t found them._

_Yet._

 

When his phone rang in the dead of night, Tim wanted to throw it at the wall. He’d _just_ gone to bed, dammit. 

Sometimes he wished back the days where all he had to do was show up at a lab in the morning. 

No, that wasn’t accurate, either. Even in Tim’s days as a bio forensic specialist, he’d been called out to crime scene investigations at every time of the day. Because he’d signed up for it. 

Because Tim loved this part of the job. Even if he sometimes had trouble remembering that. 

 

The museum bore the unmistakable signs of being a crime scene when he arrived barely thirty minutes later. Once he got signed in, he was greeted by his partner, Conner Kent, grinning at him. “Good morning, Tim.” 

“It’s 2 am, I don’t have to be polite.” 

“No time to get any coffee, then? Aww.”

“Shut it and tell me what we have. Central said something about _two_ bodies?”

“Seems excessive, doesn’t it? The night security guard found them.” Conner looked down at his notes. “Student from Gotham U, jobbing at the agency that does for the museum.” 

Over his shoulder, Tim could see a tall man in a standard security uniform talking with an officer. He was tall and broad, not unattractive, but his face looked sullen. Great. An ex-con, probably, unhappy to speak to the police, not to mention on the defence about stumbling over two bodies.

“He’s weird if you ask me,” Conner told Tim, following his gaze. “More upset about potentially losing his job than two dead people.” 

“You’ve been here fifteen minutes, Conner. There’s no way that’s an informed judgement.” 

His partner shrugged. 

Tim rolled his eyes. “Let’s go view the bodies.” They could speak to the witness once they’d given Crime Scene Investigations the go-ahead. 

They put their protective gear on, and a policewoman in uniform led them to the scene. As they entered, Conner drew back, knowing that Tim liked to take in everything quietly at first. 

It looked harmless, at first. Two young people, a man and a woman, to go by their clothing, lying on the ground together. Like a romantic picnic in the museum at night. 

Tim drew his eyes away and observed the rest of the rooms. Reproductions of historical scenes lined the walls, telling the story of Gotham’s founding. There didn’t seem to be any historical objects in here. 

“Do we know what the light was like in here?” 

Conner looked around. “There’s a light switch next to the door. It was on when EMTs and police arrived. We’ll have to ask the guard if he switched it on.”

“There’s no nightlights beyond the emergency signs I can see. Difficult to kill two people if that’s all you got.” 

“The guard would have noticed if the light was switched on, I’m sure.” 

“Well, he missed two people being murdered, so who knows.” 

Conner snickered, then fell quiet as Tim started walking towards the bodies, taking care to take a wide berth around anything scattered on the ground. What looked like the woman’s purse was lying a few feet away from the body, its content strewn all over. 

At least identification would be easy, Tim noted with relief, crouching down and telling Conner: “That’s a driver’s license made out to Sheila Cole. Looks like it’s her. She was eighteen.” 

“Jesus. Anything for him?” 

Tim shook his head. “Maybe he’s carrying his wallet, but I won’t touch yet.” 

“Alright, I’ll get a victim liaison ready to find her next of kin and take with us. Press will be all over this in the morning.” 

“How long until there’s going to be Midnight at the Museum jokes on twitter?” 

“It’s the internet. About fifteen minutes. Alright, be back in five.” 

Tim heard his footsteps recede, but he as already focusing on the scene again. It looked contained, but he knew that to be an illusion. Those two and whoever did this to them had gotten in here somehow. 

The whole museum would have to be dusted, but Tim could already predict that would be pointless. Far better to find the point of entry and concentrate on that. Even that would be useless if they had simply come in through the front door during the day and stayed. Still, the perp couldn’t have hidden here after the crime. Conner would’ve ordered a search of the whole museum first thing. 

When he decided the environment couldn’t tell him anything else, for now, Tim allowed himself to focus on the bodies. 

The man was lying on his back, not quite spread-eagle, but not in a natural position, either. The gunshot wound clearly in his head told the story of how he died. 

He had been killed first, Tim thought. The woman was lying on top of him. Eliminate the bigger threat. Take his time with her. 

There was no visible gunshot wound on the woman’s body, but honestly, that would be for the forensic pathologists to say. She had been battered. Her face was gone. 

Tim gave himself a moment to pray that it had been done post-mortem. 

Conner cleared his throat behind him. “Done?” Behind him, the forensic pathologist was waiting. 

Tim nodded at them. “Yes. Alright, Bart, go ahead.” He got up and joined the two of them at the door. There was nothing left to do for those two here. 

 

They took the security guard to the manager’s office. The man wasn’t wearing his uniform anymore; it had likely been taken into evidence. Good, Tim thought. That way they weren’t risking contaminating potential fibre evidence. 

They’d have to tread carefully here. The security guard was either their murderer or best witness. Either way, they wanted him relaxed. 

“First off, this interview is being recorded, just to make it easier on us. That alright with you?” Conner asked him once he’d settled down on a chair in front of them. 

“Sure.” 

“Your name is Jason Peter Todd?” Conner started the actual interview. 

The guard nodded. “Yes.” 

“And your employer is…” 

“Ma Gunn’s Security. I’ve already given one of the guys,” Todd gestured towards the door, probably meaning to indicate the officer he’d spoken to before, “my work ID and driver’s license.” 

“How long have you worked here?” 

“At the museum? Only a month.” 

“And before that?” 

“Different places with the agency. I was mostly doing bouncer work.” 

Conner raised an eyebrow. “This must have been a bit of a quiet job for you, then.” 

The man shrugged. “Yeah, well. I’m a student at Gotham U, just started my master’s, and this fits better with my schedule. Bars close at 2 am. Here I can do the late shift, go home, change, get some breakfast and walk to my morning classes.” 

Tim studied Todd as he talked. Somehow, with his forbidding scowl at the beginning, he’d have expected the man to be more taciturn. 

“What do you study?” 

“Psychology and Computer Science.” 

“Interesting combination.”

“Hmm.” Todd didn’t seem inclined to give them more info about that. No more small talk, then.

“Tells us about your night.”

“I arrived at work at 10 pm - “ 

“What did you do before that?” Conner interrupted him. 

“I had class until six. Went home - you have the address - slept for a few hours, had dinner. I left the house at 9.10 and arrived here at 9.45.” 

“You live alone?” 

“It’s a real small apartment with shitty walls and I can hear every neighbour coming and going, but technically yes.” 

“How did you get to the museum?” 

“I walked.” 

“Not a very safe route.” 

Todd shrugged. _What can you do_ , the gesture seemed to say. And: _I can take care of myself_. “Not much choice. Anyway, I got here at 9.45, like I said. Changed clothes - from the ones I’m wearing now into my uniform - and started my rounds. My colleague, Miguel Collazo Gamez, will attest to that, I took over from him.” 

“How did the rest of your night go?” 

“Honestly, quiet. There was nothing special.” 

“Do you vary your route through the museum?” 

“Nah. I suggested it, just to make it a bit less predictable, but my boss told me to just stick to the plan, so it’s the same thing every time.”

“Can you draw up your usual route on the floor plan?” Conner handed Todd the plan and a pen. 

Todd did so, adding a cross to the security booth at the entrance. “This is where I sit between rounds, watching the feed. I usually replay the entrance footage once I’ve returned.” 

“Nothing on there tonight?” 

“Not that I saw. Would you like me to shade in the areas the cameras cover?” 

“Sure, thanks.” They would get that info later from the security firm and check for themselves, but it wouldn’t hurt. Todd was cooperating more than Tim had expected. 

When he was done, Todd handed Conner the plan back and continued: “It was on my seventh round, starting at about 1.30 am, when I found the bodies.” 

“What made you go into that specific room?” Tim interjected. “I understand it’s not part of your usual route.” 

Todd shifted slightly in his seat. Ah. Nervous. “The door was ajar. I couldn’t swear to it, but I thought that it’d been closed before.”

Conner nodded understandingly. “I get it. In your job, you need to pay attention to that kind of detail.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to get clubbed over the head or whatever just cause I miss something like that.” Then he seemed to remember what he’d walked into through that door and winced. “Though I didn’t notice those two come in, so clearly I’m not that great at it. My boss will have my head for this.” 

“We’ll put in a good word for you. Can you describe what you saw?” 

“Two people, lying on the floor. One man, one person in a dress. There was… a lot of blood.” 

“What did you do next?” 

“Called emergency services.” 

They would listen to the call later. “With your personal phone?” 

“Yeah, we don’t get one for work. Uh, then I went to the front of the museum to let police and EMTs in and show them where to go. You guys showed up pretty quick.” 

“When you opened the door to the room, did you touch the handle?” 

Todd thought about it. “I don’t think so. I had my flashlight out and my baton in the other hand, just in case, so I probably just pushed the door open with my elbow. Like I said, it was ajar.” 

Ah. The room had been dark then. “Did you turn on the light?” 

“Yes. Sorry, forgot about that. After I found them, while I was dialling 911.” 

“Of course. Difficult to check for life with a flashlight in one hand and the phone in the other.” 

“Matter of fact…” 

“Yes?” 

“I didn’t touch them. It, uh, was pretty obvious to me that they were dead.” 

Huh. That was the first thing in this interview that spoke against Todd being the perpetrator. One of the advantages of being the one to find the bodies was that it gave a ready explanation for any traces left on the victims. Either Todd didn’t do it, or he was very sure he hadn’t left any traces. 

“Did you know the victims?” Conner changed tack. 

“I think I’ve seen them before.” 

Tim was quick to pounce on that. “Oh? You managed to tell that from seeing them there?” 

Todd rolled his eyes. “Meaning I’d have seen her before her face was battered in? Nah, but I know him. Not personally, but his family runs the corner store where I live. It’s called ‘Smith’s’. I often drop by after my nightshifts. Their sandwiches are the best in the Bowery, in my humble opinion. He’s a college student, too, covers the shift before his classes. I’ve seen a girl hang out there for the last few weeks and just… assumed it was her, I guess. Her nails are that bright pink, too.” 

He was talking too much. It was a reasonable enough story, but Tim was inclined to agree with Conner: The guy was hinky. 

“Anything else you can tell us about them?” he asked. 

“Not really. Nice family, a mother, two grandparents, one sister, I think, but she’s away for medical school. They’ve been there as long as I can remember.”

“You grew up in the area?” 

For the first time, Todd looked overtly uncomfortable. “Mostly.” 

Tim made a mental note to check his record carefully for registered addresses. Most likely, he was hiding a prison stint, but who knew. He’d let Todd be comfortable for now. 

“Any rumours about the family?” 

“Surprisingly few. A bit about the mom - single mother, you know the stuff. One ex-boyfriend tried to steal cash; she sent him running. But I never heard of them being involved with drugs or any of the other trades of the neighbourhood if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“I see.” Conner’s voice was carefully neutral. “Tim, you got any questions?” 

Todd looked at him. This was the way they liked to do this - Conner cautious, Tim with the annoying questions. “Just wondering - how did you get those abrasions on your knuckles?” 

“I’m an amateur fighter at xxx’s ring,” Todd said. 

Conner seemed to recognize the name. “MMA?” 

“Yeah. We had a bout two days ago. Four people, three rounds, winner takes all.” Todd grinned. It didn’t look very nice. “I won.”

Conner looked at Tim. His eyes asked a silent question. This was crossing into ‘we suspect you of a crime’ territory. At this point, if they were going to question him further, they’d need to mirandize him. 

Tim gave a minute shake of his head. Next time, when they had forensics to back up their questions. 

Instead, he asked: “You’ve been swabbed?” 

Todd nodded. “Fingerprints taken and gunshot residue checked, too. I promised to come back after the interview.“ 

“Then we’ll let you do that. We’ve kept you long enough.” 

“Eh. I’ll have to ask the manager about the rest of my shift - not like I’m really needed with you guys here.” 

Conner’s smile was frosty. “Probably not.” 

Todd walked to the door but hesitated. He turned to Tim. “Give the chief my regards.” 

“You know Chief Wayne?” Tim asked. This would be a weird moment to try to play his connections. 

“Something like that. Goodbye, officers, I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.” The smile on Todd’s face looked outright malicious as he left. 

Conner and Tim exchanged glances. 

“That was weird,” Tim’s partner offered. 

“So weird. He has an explanation for everything, but…”

“Weird. I say it could be drugs. Definitely the right neighbourhood for that. They stopped by for some business, the deal went wrong, Todd killed the guy, the woman pissed him off even more somehow…” 

Tim rolled his eyes. “Too early for that, Con.” 

“Yeah, yeah. All I’m saying is, let’s keep him in mind.” 

 

There had been some debate about whether they should disturb the family at five in the morning or let them have the last good night of sleep they would have in a while. In the end, Tim won - Todd had said the bodega was open 24/7 and that their victim worked the early shift. His family might already have noticed he was gone. He didn’t want them to put two and two together with the news reports of a murder in the local history museum. 

The corner store that was registered to the Smith family was indeed located just a block away from the address Todd had given them for his condo. A brightly lit sign declared it open. Tim let Conner and Megan, the family liaison who was dressed in full uniform, go ahead. 

He hated this part. 

There were two people at the counter, a middle-aged woman and a younger man. Silently, Tim approved. Way too many stores had clerks working the night shift alone. 

The man greeted them with a cheery “Good morning, officers!” 

The woman, however, didn’t look happy. She left the counter and hurried to them. “Are you here about Ty? I called you - the police, I mean - but the operator said I would need to wait…” her voice trailed off as she seemed to take in the fact that there probably wouldn’t be three police officers in her store at five am to take a missing person’s report.

Tim mentally winced. Nothing like getting off on the wrong foot with a victim’s parent like that. 

Megan gave the woman an understanding smile. “Mrs Smith? I’m Megan Morss, and these are Detective Inspectors Drake and Kent. Is there somewhere we can talk?” 

 

If Tim never had to tell another mother that her child was dead, he would die happy. 

Her head was still buried in her hands when she asked: “In the museum, you say?” 

“Can you think of any reason why he would be there?” 

“No. No, I… I think he took his girlfriend there once for a date. Just a week ago, it was. I thought it was a lovely idea.” Thinking about the question seemed to distract her, but only for a moment. “Oh God, I’ll have to tell her-” 

“Can you tell me her name?” Conner gently interrupted her. 

“Sheila Cole. She’ll be so heartbroken, God, the poor girl -” Mrs Smith was crying again. 

“I’m afraid I have more bad news,” Megan told her. “We found a second body next to your son. It was a young woman.” 

It took her a while to recover from that. At least, Tim thought, they could be sure of the ID of the woman now. Sheila Cole. He wouldn’t forget it. 

“Did your son have any enemies? Anyone who would want to do him harm?” Conner asked. 

She shook her head. 

“Now, I’m sorry, but I have to ask - was he involved in anything illegal? Drugs, perhaps?” 

Again an emphatic shake of the head. 

“I can assure you it doesn’t matter now,” Conner kept going. “This is a murder investigation. We need to know everything, even if it hurts.” 

“My boy is clean,” Mrs Smith insisted, forgetting to use past tense. “I made sure of that. He wouldn’t do that to me. It’s okay to try some stuff, and there was drinking, sure, but not the harder ones. Look at this neighbourhood, I told him, those things destroy lives.” Her voice broke on the last phrase. 

“I understand,” Tim told her gently. And he did. If her son had taken drugs or dealt in them, his mother hadn’t known. He changed tack. “Can you tell me something about his friends?” 

“Mostly other students, but he doesn’t have time to go out much, what with helping in the shop and such. He has a few good friends left from high school. Jack and Anat are like brothers to him.” She swallowed. “They were, I should say.”

Conner put his notepad and pen in front of her. “Would you mind just writing down their names and contact info?” 

She did. Tim could see her hands were shaking, but the writing was still legible. 

Megan took over. “Is there anyone we can call, Ma’am?” 

“My daughter. She’s in… she’s in New York, oh God… she doesn’t know…” 

So Todd had been right in that account. Tim made a mental note to speak to the sister soon. For now, they left Lorena Smith to Megan and her grief. 

 

“So mama thinks her son has done nothing wrong,” Conner sighed when they were outside. 

“She might be right.” 

“In this area?” 

Tim rolled his eyes. Times like these, it really showed that Conner hadn’t grown up in Gotham. “Yes, Conner, even in an area like this. You know as well as I do that the drug user rate is about 14.8% percent, only three percent above the average for the city. So far, we have no indication the murders had anything to do with drugs, so I’d like to keep an open mind, okay?” 

“Sure.” 

“Sheila Cole’s family next?” 

 

That interview didn’t go any better. Worse, even, because they had to explain why the parents wouldn’t be able to identify their daughter’s corpse by looking at her. 

Tim was glad when they were back at the station. 

 

The phone rang.

Tim kept typing as Conner answered the call and only stopped when the other turned to him after he hung up. “We got a preliminary autopsy report. Bart thought we should know as quickly as possible. The bullet wound on the front was an exit wound. Well, wounds.” 

“More than one?” 

“Fired at close range, one right after the other, in the back of his head.” 

“An execution, then. What about Sheila?” 

“Blunt force trauma. Bart isn’t 100% about this, but he suspects it was done by fists. No visible edges. Another possible cause of death is strangulation, again most likely manual. Her larynx was crushed.” Conner paused. “Off-record, he told me he suspects that whoever did this alternated between strangling and beating her. Bruising patterns had time to set in. He took his time.” 

Unbidden, the image of Todd’s large hands and injured knuckles rose to Tim’s mind. 

But those abrasions had already been scabbed over, he reminded himself. They hadn’t been opened that night. And as for him having the strength… well, every beat cop learned on their second domestic violence call that there as more than one man in Gotham capable of smashing a woman’s face in. 

“He sent in samples for blood tests, I assume.” 

“As well as the DNA under her fingernails.” 

That cheered Tim up a bit. She’d gotten that fucker, then. Still, with the backlog being what it was, it would take weeks. 

“He’s requested her dental records for a confirmed ID”, Conner continued. “There are some fillings he should be able to use even if the teeth aren’t in their original place, he says.” 

Tim got up. “I’ll let Bruce know.” 

 

“Chief.” 

Bruce smiled at him. “Tim, come in.” He studied Tim as he walked in and must have not liked what he saw, because he asked: “Did you sleep?” 

Tim waved his concern off with a careless hand as he sat down. “I’ll go home tonight.”

Bruce visibly decided to stop pushing - they’d had this argument before. “So what brought you here?” 

“The man who found the body, Jason Peter Todd, mentioned that he knew you.” 

Tim watched as Bruce’s shoulders tensed, the frown between his brows growing more pronounced. “Ah. Yes.” 

“I was wondering how.” 

“I arrested him before.” 

Bruce had been working as head of this department for at least a decade. “He was implicated in a homicide case before?” If so, that was quite promising. 

“No. I was still working organized crime back then.” 

Tim did the mental math. “You worked there 1995-2007, so Todd must’ve been…” 

“He was 12.” 

“And you _arrested_ him?” That did not sound like Bruce at all. 

Bruce looked tired. “No. Of course not. But he was stealing tires from a police car.” 

That honestly sounded dumb. What kind of people was Todd hanging around in his youth? Might he still have that kind of friends? “Okay?” 

“I bought him food and told him about the Wayne foundation place for street kids.” 

Tim blinked as his assumptions re-arranged himself in his head. “He was living on the streets?” 

Bruce nodded. “Or as good as. I tried to check up on him later, but it was as if he’d vanished from the system. Until he showed up in another major case in Bristol County. A serial murder, with him as one of the attempted victims. I was called in to assist.” 

“I’d like the case file.” 

Bruce seemed to consider it briefly, then shook his head. “It’s an ongoing investigation and not our jurisdiction. Anyway, there was no indication he was anything but the victim in that case.”

“Could the perpetrator back then have something to do with this case?” Tim asked. Maybe the killer had just hit the wrong target. It sounded like an idea from a poorly written TV show, but he still had to check. 

“Believe me, you’d have noticed.” 

Tim considered his options. He could press. Maybe even request the case file himself. Bruce was keeping something from here, and Todd had sounded as if there was more between them than one encounter sixteen years ago. 

Whatever it was that had gone on between his adoptive father and his prime suspect, it wasn’t relevant to his case. Tim would ignore it for now. 

He took his leave from Bruce and returned to his office, where his partner was already waiting. “Anything interesting?” 

“He caught Todd stealing as a teenager, but didn’t arrest him. And something about him being a victim in a different case later, but that’s classified and none of our business. What have you got there?” 

Conner triumphantly showed him a print-out. “I got the record on Todd. None of the stuff your dad mentioned is on there. But check this out - he got a prison sentence for violent assault.” 

Tim whistled as he took the sheet and read it over. “Two people at once?” 

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” 

“But,” Tim pointed out, “they were both men.” 

“One of which definitely had ties to organized crime. Told you - drug deal gone wrong.” 

“Maybe.”

Conner visibly decided to stop arguing about it. “Look, it’s after eight. I’ll head home. You should, too.” 

Tim considered, then shrugged and went to grab his coat. 

“Get some sleep.” Conner looked at him sternly.

“Of course.” 

 

When he arrived home, Tim barely took the time to throw some food into the microwave and make himself a fresh pot of coffee before he was pulling up the security videos on his laptop. Opening a spreadsheet, he started noting down where Todd had been and which rooms were eliminated by the cameras as possible entry windows. 

It took hours, but once he was done, Tim stared at his results. “Fuck.” 

 

The next morning, he greeted Conner with a smile and a “We’re going to need to look for a new prime suspect.” 

Conner groaned. “What did you do?” 

“Checked the security footage. Looks like the museum doesn’t trust their hired security all that much. Todd’s never out of frame for more than a few seconds until he finds the bodies.” 

“And he can’t have done it then, because we would’ve found the weapon and the time of death doesn’t fit. _Fuck_.” 

“My thoughts exactly. There is, however, a window during each rotation where someone could have entered through the East entrance and made their way to that room.” He showed Conner the route on the room plan they had pinned up on the board by now. “Todd wouldn’t have noticed. It likely happened when he was at his booth - that’s the greatest distance from the room.” 

“Explains why he didn’t hear anything. Still, we can’t be sure the murders happened just before his last rotations. He could have just not noticed the open door.” 

“I’ll have our worker bees canvas the area for security footage around that entrance. In the meantime: What’s your plan for today?” 

“Well, I _meant_ to look into Todd’s past further, but I guess that just solved itself, thanks to you,” Conner complained playfully. “How about I speak to the families again? Maybe Sheila’s mother will be in a better state to be interviewed today.”

“See if you can ask her and her husband about any possible connections to the museum. They must’ve been there for a reason, and it doesn’t look like it was Todd. Unless he did mean to meet them and just ended up finding them dead.” 

Conner perked up. “That’s a thought. Maybe I _should_ speak to him again.” 

Tim laughed. “How about I do that while you go to the families? Then I’ll come back and check whatever footage our boys dig up.” 

His partner gave him a thumbs-up. 

 

Tim easily recalled the number Todd had written down on his statement yesterday. The call was accepted with a court “Hi.” 

“Mr Todd? This is Tim Drake from Gotham PD. We spoke yesterday.” 

The voice didn’t get any friendlier. “I remember.” 

“We would like to do a follow-up interview.” 

“Ah.” 

Tim rolled his eyes to the ceiling, making Conner snicker. “What time would suit you today?” 

“Class starts in five.” 

There was a pause. Tim didn’t say anything. Todd didn’t say anything, either, but Tim was content to wait him out. 

Finally, the other offered: “I have a break between twelve and one. I could come to the station then.” 

Tim rewarded him with a: “That’s fine, just tell me where to meet you.” 

 

The cafe they ended up in turned out to be more of a diner, really; the sort of place where you could order waffles or a casserole at any time of day and night. 

Todd was already there when Tim arrived and didn’t bother to get up from the booth to greet him. Tim didn’t let it disconcert him, just ordered his own coffee from the waiter and sat opposite him. “Thank you for taking the time.” 

“Sure.” 

Usually, Tim would add some pleasantries here - ‘It can’t have been easy, finding those bodies. Did you manage to get some sleep? How did your manager react?’ - but there didn’t seem to be any point. “Is there anything you’d like to add to your statement? Some detail, maybe, that doesn’t seem important?” 

“No.” 

“You mentioned you had seen Tyrone Smith before. What, exactly, was the nature of your relationship?” 

Todd lifted an eyebrow. “Relationship?” 

Tim shrugged. “As a matter of phrasing.” 

“We were friendly, that’s all. I’m a regular customer and neighbour, but I wouldn’t call us friends or anything like that. Just someone you see around.” 

“Anything else you can tell us about him?” 

“Not about him, no.” Todd took a long sip of coffee. He seemed to consider whether to tell Tim something. Waiting him out had worked pretty well before, so that’s what Tim did. 

“Look,” Todd finally began, “I mentioned I’ve seen her around, yeah? It wasn’t always in the store.” 

“Oh?” 

“Like I said, those nails are real distinctive,” Todd shrugged. “And so was the guy she was hanging with before she started hanging at the store all the time.”

Tim leaned forward. Now they were getting somewhere. “Distinctive? In what way?” 

 

“He was wearing gang tattoos. Gotham Disciples.” 

“Are you sure it was gang-related and not just regular tattoos?” Tim was sceptical. People liked to assign meaning to tattoos that didn’t exist, in his experience. 

Todd gave him an exasperated look. “Yes, of course I’m sure. Seen them plenty in prison. A rune here, a Claddagh ring, an ailm and a red-headed snake around the other wrist. Brotherhood, loyalty, strength and danger.” 

“You have any of these tattoos yourself?” 

“None of your business.” 

Tim left it at that, for now. “And you saw Miss Cole ‘hanging around’ with this individual?” 

“Sort of. At least, he was with her when she was walking or whatever. I’m not sure if that attention was actually welcomed on her part. That’s the other reason I kept an eye out. Those guys don’t have a reputation as good, attentive boyfriends.”

“They really don’t,” Tim had to agree. “Could you describe him to me? Other than his tattoo.” 

Todd’s eyes wandered into the distance. He seemed to try to visualize the scene, only speaking after a solid minute had passed. “He was taller than her. I’d say about my height.” 

“Which is?” 

“Six foot two. Not real broad, but not skinny, either. Well muscled, but not from the gym. Kinda like you.”

Tim wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Hair? Eyes?” 

“His hair was dark - brown-ish, maybe? Not sure. Same for his eyes.” 

“Was he Hispanic, would you say?” 

“Nah, pretty sure he’s white, just going from the clothing. He’s not from around here, anyway, or I’d know who he is.” 

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You seem sure of your connections.” 

“Pretty damn sure, yeah.” 

Tim had his doubts, but. It was a lead. 

“Well, thank you for telling me,” he said. “Is there anything else you can remember?” 

Todd shook his head. “Nah.” Then he glanced at his watch. 

Tim took the hint. “Thank you for your time, then. I might have to ask you to come into the station and sign your statement.” 

Todd shrugged, and Tim left. 

 

_Got some info about a guy with gang tattoos (Gotham Disciples, witness says) with Sheila, potentially an ex-boyfriend._

Conner replied an hour later, when Tim was back at the station: _Parents said nothing, but nervous when asked about exes + got name of bff and invited her to station_

 

“Look.” Indira Perales Estévez was angry. “No one is saying anything because his gang, like, owns the neighbourhood, but we all know it was probably Mike fucking Danek.” 

“Who’s ‘we’?” Conner asked. 

“Me. Sheila’s parents. They know she went out with him for a while before she dumped him because he threatened her with violence.” 

“Did he, now?” 

She nodded. “Several times. ‘No bitch is allowed to leave me’, that kinda bullshit.” 

“What was his reaction when she started seeing Ty?” 

“Fucking hated it. Sheila told me Mike’d been harassing her, calling her in the middle of the night, like, and following her when she left the house.” 

“Her parents didn’t say anything.” 

“Like I said, he’s a member of the Disciples. Do I really need to explain to you why they might not be ready to point fingers at him?” 

Tim decided to ask a question. “So what makes you volunteer the information?” 

Indira didn’t look away even as tears sprang into her eyes. “She was my friend. When I came out as trans, she made sure no one bothered me. You better make sure that fucker pays for what he did, or I will.”

Conner lifted an appeasing hand. “Whoa. We’ll check him out, and in the meantime, we’ll keep your visit here very quiet.” 

Tim, however, was nodding. It fit what he had found on the surveillance footage from a club around the corner of the museum, once he was looking for it. 

A man with tattoos, going into the direction of the museum at 0.15 am and running in the opposite direction fifty minutes later. Tim didn’t know why Ty and Sheila had chosen to meet up in the museum, of all places, but they had enough. 

“Would you be able to identify Mr Danek on an image?” 

He was already mentally composing the warrant application for Michael R. Danek’s DNA. 

 

A month later, Danek had been arrested with charges of first-degree murder, unlawful possession of a firearm and assault. Tim really hoped he wouldn’t be allowed to plea-bargain it down to second-degree, but that wasn’t up to him. At least he hadn’t got bail. 

He hadn’t expected to see Jason Todd again, but here he was, coming up the stairs to the police station with a scowl on his face. The expression didn’t turn any friendlier when he spotted Tim. 

Tim considered ignoring him, but… there was something that still bothered him. So he put himself into Todd’s path and greeted him with a friendly: “Good morning.” 

“Morning,” Todd grumbled. 

“What brings you here?” 

“I missed you.” Seeing Tim taken aback at that seemed to cheer Todd up. “Nah, DA wants me to repeat my statement to you on record.” 

“Ah yes, your statement. It was very… observant of you, to notice all these details about a guy you passed on the street once or twice.” 

Todd shrugged. “What can I say, that’s me.” 

“You know, you were the prime suspect for a while there.”

“Sorry to disappoint your expectations.” 

Tim narrowed his eyes on him. “I’m not convinced yet that you didn’t know who they were and that they were going to meet there.” 

The look on Todd’s face turned dangerous. He started saying, “I never fucking-”, but before the situation could escalate, Tim’s phone rang. Judging by the ring tone, it was Conner, probably calling him to another crime scene. 

Todd grinned. “Shouldn’t you take that?” 

Well, yes, but he sure as hell wouldn’t in front of the other man. Tim glared and squeezed out a curt “Good-bye” before turning away. 

Sure, there was another dead body waiting for him, but at least he’d never have to deal with Jason Todd again. 


	2. Betrayal of the Killing Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your very kind comments <3 I think this update will answer some of your questions.

_The man can’t help but feel excited for the days ahead. It’s been way too long since he and his best friend did something like this, just the two of them. Sure, it’s a business trip for him, but they’ll cram in some fishing, maybe visit a few bars._

_He’s humming as he starts the car. Then he feels something cold press against his neck._

 

Jason got to keep his job, which was a blessing. The last thing he needed right now was to go job-hunting and explain to potential employers that he’d been fired for finding two corpses in a museum—“No, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Really. I was only the prime suspect for a couple of days. And hey, the police only suspect me of conspiracy to commit murder now, not of killing them myself, so that’s good, right?”

So yeah. Keeping that job was a bonus, even if it meant keeping a careful eye out on his walk back home. He didn’t _think_ Detective Drake had let it slip who exactly pointed him towards Danek. It wouldn’t hurt to be careful, though. Last he’d heard, Indira Perales Estévez had left the city. 

The days had turned cold; the nights even colder. Jason was looking forward to a hot breakfast at _Smith’s_ when he spotted the man. 

He was your typical middle-class office worker, probably on the way to his job; maybe trying to beat the rush hour traffic. (Good luck with that.) Nothing special about him, except for the way he was staring at the window and not moving. When Jason followed his gaze with his own, he saw that there was something dark staining the window. Whatever it was, it had left the guy deeply in shock. 

Dammit. He really shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t. 

“Hey, everything alright?” Jason asked. 

“I don’t think so,” was the somewhat dazed reply. 

Jason moved to look inside the car, sighed, and pulled out his phone. 

 

“So you just happened to stumble across a body again.” 

“Yes.” It wasn’t like Jason was any happier about this than Detective Drake was. Would it be too much to ask for this case to be assigned one of the dozen’s other homicide detectives that worked for Gotham PD? He’d already talked too much the last time they’d crossed paths. Jason was a sucker for a pretty face. Apropos… “Where’s your partner? I expected him to be glaring at me by now.” 

“He’s been reassigned. Would you like me to call someone in to glare at you, or can we conduct this interview?” Drake’s tone was biting. 

“Sure. I was walking home—you know the details of that—after my shift ended—again, you know my schedule—when I noticed there were weird stains on the window.” 

“You are a very observant man.” That wasn’t a compliment.

“Security guard. And after what happened… well, a little extra paranoia seems to be indicated, doesn’t it?” Shut up, Jason, he told himself. Just stick to the facts. “Anyway. I walked closer to see what it was—curiosity, that’s all—and that’s when I saw the dead man at the wheel.” 

“You could tell he was dead?” 

“The bullet wound was a dead giveaway. Also, the blood on the window was already congealing. And there was… other stuff.” Even Jason didn’t like to utter the word ‘brain matter.’

The detective looked deeply unimpressed. “Did you see anyone else around?”

“No.”

“Did you touch anything?” 

“No. It didn’t look like there was anything I could do. Would’ve just messed up the scene.” 

“Could’ve been a suicide.” 

“Still shouldn’t have been messed up. Do you often find people who shoot themselves into the back of their neck?” 

Drake chose not to answer that. Point to Jason. “Is there anything you’d like to add?” 

“Nah. Do you need another DNA sample?”

“No, thank you. You’re on file. But please come to the station later so we can take your full statement. Who knows, maybe you suddenly remember things about the victim you supposedly don’t know again.” 

Okay, that point went to Drake. He knew it, too, because he nodded his good-bye right away and walked back to the scene. 

There was no one around to tell Jason to leave, though, so he stayed where was and watched as Drake approached the crime scene investigators. Most of the technicians around him were visibly older than him, but they looked at him with respect. Jason had noticed that the first time they met. Young as he was, Detective Drake was a professional.

Course, it helped when your adoptive daddy basically ran the police. 

The office worker was still there, standing right behind the crime scene tape. Jason steadfastly ignored him. Drake was suiting up now, his movements quick and sure. 

A phone alarm beeped. Jason checked the time and cursed—he was late to Clinical Psychology already, and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet. Fucking Gotham. 

 

True to his word, Jason went to the station that day after class. It cut into his precious sleeping time, but he didn’t want to give the police an excuse to show up at his home. The officer who took his statement was _much_ friendlier than Drake and inclined to be chatty. Enough so that Jason dared to ask: “So, am I a suspect again?” 

“Eh, I think you’re good. The victim’s wife took out a life insurance on him a week ago that totals about 700 thousand dollars.” 

Jason whistled appreciatively. “She didn’t waste any time, did she.” 

“Nope. They’re looking for evidence of an affair as we’re speaking.” 

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. Okay, please sign here, and then we’re done.” 

 

When he walked to work that night, the scene was still bustling, though the more important officers seemed to have left. Office Guy was still there, of course. Jason made a wide berth around the car. 

Sadly, his hope that this case would be neatly tied up as quickly as possible so he could go back to being an ordinary student was shattered when he turned on the TV in his work cabin and saw a nicely dressed woman facing the camera.

“Mrs. Uberti, the victim’s wife, addressed reporters today after police informed her of her husband’s tragic death,” the voiceover announced. 

“I am simply devastated,” Mrs. Uberti said. Her eyes were red, but Jason would bet anything that there hadn’t been a single actual tear. “My husband was a good man. We’ve been married for ten years and were very much in love. I don’t know what to tell my children—it’s just so horrible.” 

The announcer took over. “Asked what she thinks happened, Mrs. Uberti speculated that it had to be a random attacker.” 

“My Matteo didn’t have any enemies. He was the nicest guy. Just this morning he made sure that his best friend, Giraldo Amerighi, would visit me as he was leaving for a three-day business trip and wouldn’t be able to help with the children.” She pressed a tissue to her eyes and sobbed. “And now he’s gone. I cannot believe it.” 

Jason rolled his eyes before turning back to the monitors that were supposed to hold his attention. Still he thought: So she has an alibi, and made sure to mention it in front of the cameras. Damn. 

It looked like he wasn’t off the suspect list quite yet. 

 

It took three days for Jason to break. To be fair, he had one of these nights off, so he only saw Office Guy four times. 

Then it was Sunday, six-thirty a.m., and Office Guy was there again. Jason should probably stop calling him that; wasn’t like he didn’t know the man’s name. 

That thought was what did it. He went up to the man and exasperatedly asked: “What are you still doing here?” 

“What do you mean—wait, you can see me?” the man had the nerve to ask. “Then you fucking know why I’m here. I can’t leave, can I?” 

“Yes, you can. After a day or so, there’s no stopping you.” That should do it, Jason thought. He had no intention of getting involved again—too dangerous at this point. This way, he’d get Uberti out of his hair.

Uberti brightened up. “I can go visit Lily—my wife—and my children?” 

“Yeah, uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The children, yeah, but…” 

Uberti seemed to catch his drift immediately. “My wife had nothing to do with this!” 

Uh-oh. “Well, it’s just that the timing with the life insurance was a bit fortuitous, you must admit.” 

Uberti stared at him. “What life insurance?” 

“According to police, there was one taken out a week before you died.” Uberti flinched at the reminder, but Jason didn’t care. He’d need to get used to it. “Are you telling me you didn’t know?” 

“No, but I’m glad my kids are taken care of.” 

Holy shit, the dude was a sucker. Jason’s mind was already racing, trying to find a way to pass this info on to police when Uberti continued with the next bombshell: “Anyway, it wasn’t her, but Ricky that—that killed me.” 

“I got some bad news for you—” 

Someone stepped out behind the car. Jason froze. 

Detective Drake stared at him. “I think we need to talk.” 

 

“What were you even doing there this early?” Jason asked. It was a bid to save time, but he was also genuinely curious. He’d never been overheard before because he made damn sure to only talk to dead people when no one was around. 

Detective Drake shrugged, stirring his coffee. They were sitting at a park bench—less public than a café or a station, and Jason sure as hell wasn’t going to take the guy home—after grabbing something to eat from a nearby vendor. Jason was tired of missing breakfast. “Didn’t sleep, so I went for a walk to think. Now, tell me what the fuck I witnessed there.” 

“Mental breakdown. Sorry about that.” 

“A breakdown that included details we didn’t release to the public.” 

“The life insurance?” Jason almost sighed the question. 

“Signatures don’t match. Though try finding any two handwriting experts that agree on anything,” Detective Drake told him. “Now, how did you know?” 

Well, here went nothing. “I talked to Matteo Uberti’s ghost.” 

“Actual answer, please.” 

“That was it.” 

Detective Drake visibly examined Jason’s face. It was all Jason could do not to pull a grimace. “Mediums are either attention-seeking, money-grabbing frauds; actually committed the crime they know something about; or genuine. I’ve met plenty of the first category and a few of the second, but not a single convincing one.” 

Jason bristled. “I’m not making money off this! You know where I work.” 

“Much better money to made as a medium. If you’re real, why don’t you?” 

“Cause I’m not that much of an asshole.”And other reasons, but no way in hell was Jason going to go into that much detail with Drake. “Look, I don’t really care if you believe me or not. You asked how I knew, and that’s how.” 

“ _Or_ you were the one Mrs. Uberti was having an affair with, and she told you about the life insurance as you discussed killing her husband.” 

“That’s—I don’t even know where to start with all the things wrong about what you just said,” Jason sputtered. “Starting with—Jesus, even I was into women, I wouldn’t—urgh. Not the point.” He was beginning to get annoyed at Detective Drake’s denial now. “I told you about Danek, didn’t I? Sheila Cole was standing right behind you, telling me about him. I didn’t know shit about that before she did, and neither did you.” 

“Again there’s another explanation: You could belong to the gang, set up that meeting yourself.” 

“Fine.” Jason got up and started unbuttoning his shirt. 

“What are you doing?” 

Jason pulled his undershirt over his head and spread out his arms for Detective Drake’s inspection. “Here. Not a single fucking tattoo.” He turned around, presenting his back. “No gang affiliation. Or do you need me to take off my pants, too?” 

“No!” Gratifyingly, there was a bit of a blush on Detective Drake’s cheeks as Jason turned back and sat down without bothering to button all the way up again. He was so tempted to just… leave. It wasn’t like the detective could arrest him for witnessing him monologuing on the streets. If only he could be sure the crime wouldn’t be pinned on him. 

Besides. It was honestly pretty anti-climatic to share his Big Secret for the first time in his life and have that person not believe him. 

“Anyway.” Detective Drake cleared his throat. “All I’m saying is there are alternative explanations. Though I must admit, none of it explains you shouting on the streets about it—unless it’s the stupidest double-bluff I’ve ever seen.”

“What’s your theory?” 

“My theory?” 

“Of the crime. Don’t play dumb.” 

Detective Drake’s eyes turned to heaven for support. “You’re such a charmer. We’re thinking hired killer.” 

“That’s not what he said.” Jason waited. 

DetectiveDrake managed a credible minute of suppressing his curiosity before asking: “And what did he ‘say’?” 

Jason didn’t appreciate the air quotes. 

“He named a ‘Ricky.’” 

“He’s got an—”

“Alibi, I know. Given by Uberti’s wife. Who you’re suspecting of having an affair.” 

Detective Drake shook his head. “I need more than this. If you can really talk to him— _if_ —we need a detailed statement.” 

“Gonna enter that into official record?” Jason asked, but relented. “Alright.” 

Detective Drake got up. “I’ll get a car. Less suspicious that way. Do you have time now?” 

“Sunday, no classes.” Jason had been looking forward to catching up on sleep, actually, though it was considerate of Drake to ask. 

“Okay,” Detective Drake said. “Okay. Convince me.” 

 

“How do you wanna do this?” Jason asked.

“How do you usually do it?” 

“How many times do I have to—there’s no ‘usually’ about this. Could you maybe stop expecting my story to change?” 

Detective Drake’s eyebrows told him there was fat chance of that. 

Jason sighed. “He can hear everything you say, no need for me to repeat the questions. Would you like to have me repeat the answers verbatim or just the gist of it?” 

“Verbatim. You didn’t tell him about Uberti’s alibi, correct?”

“You interrupted before I could.” 

“Good. Don’t tell him yet. I’ll do when it’s time.”

Begrudgingly, Jason acknowledged in his head that Detective Drake had probably (definitely) led more interrogations than he, and nodded. 

Detective Drake pulled over at the curb. He missed the ghost by a few feet; that was hardly his fault. Jason got out, lighting a cigarette and grumbling, “Can’t let me smoke inside the car just one time?” 

Maybe it was a bit theatrical, but he wasn’t going to get caught out twice in one day. He looked at Uberti for one second, just establishing eye-contact, before turning away as if he was talking to the detective in his car, his voice low. “Hey. There’s a police officer who wants to know what happened. Wanna tell him your story?” 

Uberti lit up like he’d been waiting to talk to a cop all his life. “Sure! Uh, how do I—” 

“Just phase through the door and sit on the passenger seat.” Jason extinguished his cigarette with a small pang of regret—he couldn’t afford them so well that he ever not finished a smoke—and slid back into the car, this time on the backseat, scooting over so he could see both front seats. 

“Mr. Uberti, this is Detective Timothy Drake from Gotham PD homicide investigation,” Jason introduced him using his best customer service voice. “Detective Drake, Mr. Uberti is sitting on the passenger seat now.” 

“He can’t hear me?” Uberti asked. 

“Nope. Just me. I’ll be your translator.” 

Detective Drake threw Jason a sharp look, then he focused on where he probably thought Uberti’s face was. He missed by a couple of inches as Uberti was sitting up inhumanely straight. “Mr. Uberti. I’m not sure what the correct protocol for this is, but please let me offer my condolences first.” 

“Thank you.” Uberti looked touched.

“He says ‘thank you.’”

“Now, please tell us in your own words what happened.” 

“I’m not sure.” Despite his earlier happiness at getting into the car, Uberti suddenly looked hesitant. “I didn’t see it coming, so I don’t remember…” 

“What he _says_ is that he doesn’t remember exactly.” Jason tried his best to convey through tone just how much he didn’t believe a word of it. Trauma didn’t work the same way on a brain that was dead. There was nothing to protect the consciousness from the memory of what happened. Not if they stayed a ghost. 

“Ah.” Detective Drake nodded. “You do remember who you were with, surely.” 

“Ricky—Giraldo—but he’s my best friend!” It burst out of Uberti. “I just don’t understand why—there must be some other explanation. A stranger! Or maybe someone blackmailed him. We’re friends! He wouldn’t do this.” 

“Ricky, his best friend, who has no reason to kill him that he can see, so he doesn’t believe it,” Jason quietly translated, trying to interrupt the flow as little as possible. 

Uberti was still going: “And my wife—you hinted that she might be involved, but how could she be? She was at home.” 

“His wife wasn’t there, so he thinks she cannot be involved.” 

Detective Drake nodded and pulled out his phone. When he held it out to Uberti, a familiar video was playing: “…was the nicest guy. Just this morning he made sure that his best friend, Giraldo Amerighi, would visit me…” 

Jason watched as Uberti’s world crumbled for the second time in four days. When the man finally looked away from the video feed and to Jason, there were tears in his eyes. “She’s lying.” 

“Yes.” 

“She’s—oh God.” He buried his head in his hands. 

Jason waited. Detective Drake, who could only be guessing at what was happening, was surprisingly silent, too. 

Finally, Uberti looked up and said with cold clarity: “Ricky texted me about a month ago, asking if he could come along on a business trip again. We used to do that a lot when we were younger.” 

Thinking quickly, Jason pulled out his notebook and pen from his satchel and started taking notes. This would be quicker than repeating everything. “Is there any evidence of that text?” Amerighi had had enough time after the murder to erase that conversation from the victim’s phone. 

“Besides the text?” Uberti thought. “I probably took a screenshot of our plans. I usually do, just so I don’t have to scroll through the convos again if I forgot what we agreed on.” 

“Good. That’s good.” Jason made a note. Detective Drake was looking at his notepad now—Jason wouldn’t put it past him to be able to read it upside-down—but he thankfully didn’t interrupt. 

Uberti was on a roll. “We met at the spot on Museum Street at four a.m. on Thursday, October 4. He said to pick him up there cause he was staying over at a ladyfriend’s that night. We were just getting ready to leave—I thought he was picking out the music—and then I felt the gun. And then this.” 

Jason wrote all that down. “Did he have any luggage with him?” 

“No.” 

He looked to Detective Drake, who asked: “Did he touch anything?” 

Uberti shook his head miserably. “He was wearing gloves. It was cold, he said.” 

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up,” Jason told him. “He was your friend. You had no reason to think he—or anyone in their right mind—was planning something like this.” 

For Detective Drake, he wrote down: ‘Gloves.’ 

The detective asked: “What kind of gloves, do you remember?” 

“Light-ish—I think grey?” Uberti thought. “Or maybe beige or white or—just light, it was difficult to tell in the dark. Woolen. They looked hand-knitted. His mother always makes them for us on Christmas.” Then he silently started crying. 

‘Woolen, light color (grey? Beige/white?), probably knitted by Uberti’s mother. Crying.’ 

“Thank you,” Drake told Uberti gently. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” 

“No, I—” Abruptly, Uberti vanished. 

Jason sighed. Fucking ghosts. 

Then he realized Detective Drake was still waiting for an answer. “He’s gone.” 

“What an interesting performance, Mr. Todd.” 

Was that—was the detective laughing at him? It made him ten times more attractive, Jason thought distantly, but also really made Jason want to punch him. 

He gritted his teeth and handed over the notes instead. “I aim to please.” 

“Is that why you ignored my request to repeat his answers verbatim?” 

“He was talking, I didn’t want to interrupt more than necessary. Whole thing’s awkward enough. Anyway, you convinced now?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” Jason’s voice rose without his bidding, but Detective Drake’s gaze was cool. 

“Maybe. I will guide the investigation into the direction you indicated. If we find something—good. If we don’t… we’ll talk again.” 

“Oh, great, my future depends on you being good at your job,” Jason grumbled as he packed up his things again, ready to leave this car.

“Doesn’t it always with the police? Have a good day, Mr. Todd.” 

 

Jason didn’t see Matteo Uberti again. Maybe the man had stuck around for his kids, maybe not. He certainly never visited the street he died on again. 

It took until the spring term began for the case to be in the news again. The Gazette brought the exclusive: Giraldo Amerighi and Lily Uberti had been arrested charged with first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit murder, as well a host of smaller offenses, including unlawful possession of a fireman. Apparently Amerighi had been on parol for a misdemeanor at the time of the crime. 

Jason read the details with great interest over breakfast. Apart from ‘evidence left at the crime scene’ there had been evidence recovered from the suspects’ cell phones as well as cell tower pings that broke their alibi. The quote came from Detective Drake, who was described as ‘one of Gotham city’s most brilliant and youngest homicide investigators ever.’ 

The trial was expected to take place next year. Amerighi, the newspaper hinted, was expected to plead guilty, offering up a full confession to escape a possible death sentence.

Hopefully, this meant that Jason wouldn’t hear from Detective Drake again. Police liked to ignore this sort of stuff after all. Actually, he doubted the detective was convinced of his abilities even now. Drake was hot and terrifyingly competent, but there were reasons Jason didn’t share this part of his life with anyone. 

Maybe this term would be nice and quiet. 

 


	3. The Case of the Involuntary Roomate

_That fucking prick. She’s going to show him. What was the point in trying so hard when everyone just assumed the worst, anyway?_

_Okay, the man she’s texting to set up a meeting with is a bit of a creep. Now that she’s sober, she can see that more clearly. Whatever. She’s here for what he’s selling, not him. They’ll only have to talk for a few minutes, and then she’ll have what she needs._

_For a second, she considers what her mother would say, but she pushes that thought away. She’s used to being a disappointment._

_Her phone vibrates with a message. He’s coming over._

 

“I need your help.” 

Tim stared at the man standing before his desk. Of all people he’d expected to walk in here today, Jason Todd hadn’t been one of them. Today Todd was wearing jeans and a black henley, which was the most dressed-up Tim’d seen the other man. It looked good, but somehow Tim didn’t think he’d put it on to impress him. 

“Are you the prime suspect in a murder again?” 

“I wish.” 

Tim stared at him. 

“That would mean there was an actual murder inquiry, and there’s not.” 

“Explain.” 

“My neighbor—her name was Irene Willemsen—was killed and she’s haunting my apartment now because it wasn’t an accidental overdose, but you people said it was.” 

“And?” 

“And I figured—since you _know_ , anyway, and I kinda helped you out, maybe you could take a look.” It looked like it cost Todd something to say these words. “I have a crying woman in my apartment that won’t leave otherwise.” 

Tim leaned back. 

This couldn’t be easy for Todd. It had been evident that the other man didn’t share his ‘talents’ lightly with other people—or at all. That had been, more than anything else, what convinced Tim that there might be some truth behind his claims. 

That, and there was no way Todd was that good of an actor if that little ‘I’m just lighting my cigarette here’ routine was anything to judge by. 

The ‘interview,’ as Tim had come to think of it, quotation marks included, had yielded information that had been exceedingly useful for putting together a case for the prosecutor’s office. Still, there had been an alternative explanation for how Todd came by them, as unlikely as it seemed. Tim had been thinking about how to find out more since then. 

Fuck it. The two cases he was currently working on were waiting on lab results. He could afford to indulge his curiosity. 

“I will investigate,” he told Todd, “on my own. Don’t tell me anything else.” 

For a second, the other looked mutinous. Then he reconsidered. “Okay. Test this all you want, that’s fair. Just stop by my place before you give up, okay?”

The nerve of that man. 

“And if— _if_ —there’s anything in this, you’ll tell me everything you know about ghosts.” 

Todd didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “Deal.” 

 

Once again, Tim stood in Bruce’s office to talk about Jason Todd. He had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be the last time, either. 

There had been no question of going behind Bruce’s back. Chain of command aside, Tim felt too much personal loyalty to his commander and adoptive father to unnecessarily go behind his back. 

“A witness from two of my cases—Jason Todd, you remember him—has contacted me because of a suicide inquiry in his apartment building that he believes was insufficiently performed. From what he told me, I believe I should at least look into it.” 

Okay, so he wouldn’t mention the ghosts. Sue him. 

“Who investigated?” 

“Bailey and Moore.” Beat cops. “Decided it was clearly a suicide and didn’t bother calling us in.” 

“I see.” Bruce’s voice indicated that he did. “Take the case file, then. If there are any indications that we missed something, you have my approval to go ahead.” 

‘Approval,’ not ‘permission.’ This time, Tim took the time to study Bruce’s reaction in detail. “You’re not discouraging me from associating with Jason Todd.” 

“I’m not, I suppose,” Bruce said slowly. “From what I remember… I think anything he has to say would be worth listening to.”

“Must’ve made quite an impression.” 

There was a far-away smile on Bruce’s face. “He did.” Then he recalled himself and turned his head so Tim couldn’t see it. “Of course, I don’t know anything about him now, so don’t take my opinion too seriously.” 

“I wouldn’t, no worries.” 

“Disrespectful brat.” Bruce made a shoo-ing motion. “Go, solve your case.” 

 

Tim’s heart sank when the archivist handed him Willemsen’s file. If there were more than three pages in there, he’d feel damn lucky. Had those dickwads even ordered an autopsy? 

As it turned out: They had. Barely. By an inexperienced coroner who had likely never seen a murder victim before. 

“What’cha got there?”

Tim’s head shot up from where he was crouched over his desk, and he grinned as he saw who stood in the doorway. “Con!” 

“Missed me, yet?” His former partner grinned and walked over to give him a hug. 

“Eh, it’s nice to have some peace and quiet for once.” Tim looked Conner over. “Well, that’s one hell of a uniform.” 

Conner grinned, actually lifting his arms to let his biceps bulge through the thin fabric of the black shirt. Then he laughed and admitted: “There’s usually a jacket over it. I just thought it was too stuffy.” 

“Of course you did.” It had been a running joke during their stakeouts, back as beat cops: Tim would be sitting there, swaddled in as many layers as he could beneath his uniform, while Conner complained about the heat. “How’s the RSS treating you?” 

“Not bad. Early days, you know. What’re you working on?” 

Tim took out the few autopsy photos there were and picked one in particular to show Conner. “What does this look like to you?” 

“Bruising,” Conner said, looking over the picture. He was used to Tim doing this. “Around the wrist. She was either held down, or someone used cuffs or something on her, going by how even they are. Needle marks, all of them healed except one. But that’s all obvious—is there anything I’m missing?” 

Tim shook his head. “You’re not the one that missed the obvious. How about this?” He handed over another picture. 

Conner whistled. “Oh, wow, that hit must’ve knocked her out, or near so. Did it split her skull?” 

“I don’t know. The coroner didn’t check.” 

“You’re kidding me.” 

“He attributed the bruising to lividity—which is bullshit since she was found lying flat on her back. Accidental death by overdose.” 

“Did they run a drug test?” 

“Oh yeah, the heroin is most likely what killed her. I’m just not convinced about the ‘accidental’ part.”

“Looking at this, neither am I. Let me guess—they didn’t even check for sexual assault?” 

“Of course not. And she’s been embalmed, so…” 

Conner shook his head in disgust.

“By some miracle, we still got the blanket she was found on in some evidence locker somewhere,” Tim pointed at the one good thing he’d found out about: a detailed items list. “With some luck, there’ll be fluids on there—if there’s anything to find.” 

“What about the needle?” 

“They didn’t find any.” 

“They didn’t—you know what, I need to leave in a minute. My Chief’s waiting. But let me know if you’d like any support on this. What a shit show.” 

Tim smiled warmly at him. “Will do.” 

“What made you stumble upon this, anyway?” 

He’d hoped Conner wouldn’t ask. “Uh.” 

“Tim?” Conner perked up, clearly smelling a rat. His best friend was like a bloodhound sometimes, Tim swore. “What are you not telling me?” 

“Nothing. An informant from a former case.” 

“Which one? Do I know him?” 

Tim sighed. “Jason Todd. You know, the security guard—” 

“—that looked and behaved like a murderer. Tim.” 

“Conner.” 

They stared each other down for a moment before Conner checked his watch and cursed. “Okay, gotta go. But I want details, Tim!” 

“Sure, sure.” Never. 

The office was too quiet with Conner gone. Tim decided he’d head out himself. 

 

Irene’s parents, Ursula and Amber Willemsen, were surprised to see him. 

“I thought—the officer said she died of an overdose?” Amber asked, clutching at Ursula’s hand.

Tim smiled at her as gently as he could. Moments like these, he missed Con the most. “She did. I’m just doing a case review after a tip came in that she might not have administered the heroin herself.” 

Ursula gasped. “I knew it!” 

Amber, however, looked skeptical. “What kind of tip?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to go into details. We’re not sure if it’s valid yet,” Tim explained. “But it’s enough to have the Chief assign me to investigate her death more thoroughly. Make sure nothing was missed.” 

“I always said she was murdered,” Ursula told him earnestly. “She’d been clean for months. Why would she suddenly start using again?” 

Actually, that was the exact situation where an accidental overdose was likely to happen. Ursula wasn’t done, though. “That boyfriend of hers, he was no good.” 

“You’re just saying that now,” Amber said, “because you never liked him. I think he was good for her.”

Irene had been thirty-four. They were talking about her like a teenager. Parents, Tim supposed. Not like he’d know. He started recording.

“She did use drugs before, then?” 

“Oh, yes, off and on for years,” Amber told him candidly. “She started as a teenager—to lose weight and have fun at parties, I believe. Well, I’m sure you know how it goes.” 

“Did she receive treatment?” 

“A few times. There were a couple of years in her twenties when she was sober, but when her husband left her…” 

Tim perked up. “Her husband?” 

“Ex-husband, now.” Amber seemed to be the one giving the answers, for now. “Theo Dean. He moved to California.”

Pity. They’d need to check up on that. 

“When did they divorce?” 

“2011. She moved into our basement after that… when she was home.” 

“But that changed last year,” Ursula interjected. “She went to a clinic for six months, and I think this time it really made a difference. She even got a regular job at Save-A-Lot.” 

Tim put ‘asking about her irregular jobs’ on his list for later. He had a good idea, anyway. If that had stopped a year ago, it wasn’t likely to be relevant to the investigation. 

“Did she stay in contact with anyone from her old life?” 

“No.” “I don’t think so.” 

The two women looked at each other. Amber finally sighed and turned back to Tim to explain: “We decided early on that the only way we could maintain a relationship with our daughter was to be supportive without asking too many questions. If we tried to control her, she would’ve cut us out of her life.” 

“She loved us,” Ursula added quietly. “But, you know.” 

“It sounds like you did your best,” Tim offered. “I’m sure she appreciated it. It’s just difficult to say that, sometimes.” 

They smiled at him, touched. Then Ursula cleared her throat and offered: “She’d made friends at her new job, I think. She met up with them sometimes. And of course, her new boyfriend.” 

“Hakim Sanders,” Amber offered before Tim could ask. “He was a supervisor at her workplace, but she told me that he was not her boss, so.” That was alright, she seemed to imply. 

“How long had they been together?” 

“About four months, I think? She even introduced him to us. He’s a big guy. I don’t like saying this, because I did like him, but I think there was some trouble by the end.” 

Tim gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll speak to him. What was the nature of that trouble?” 

“We don’t know.” 

Ursula, too, shook her head, though her lips were pressed together in a way that indicated she had some Ideas. 

“Did she tell you about any arguments?” 

“Yes, that’s just it. She called us the day she died—furious—but she wouldn’t say why, just saying she’d show him.” 

Again, that was more indicative of a drug overdose than a murder—except for those marks on her wrists and her face. The boyfriend did seem to be indicated. Or… 

“Do you happen to know where she used to buy her drugs?” 

Amber shook her head unhappily. “She never told us. We had an agreement that she wouldn’t ever bring them into the house, and she kept to that.” 

Good for the peace of the household, bad for tracking down Irene’s dealer(s). Oh well, some old-fashioned police work would do the trick. 

Tim thanked them for their time. “Like I said, we are still investigating. Would you be willing to authorize an exhumation of her body for a more thorough autopsy?” 

Neither of them looked happy, but Amber said: “Whatever is necessary, Detective.”

They shook his hand firmly, and Tim left, convinced of one thing: Irene Willemsen had been murdered. 

 

The next day, Tim called together a small investigative team. All of them shook his head when Tim explained how the original investigation had gone down, deliberately vague about the tip that had led him to it. 

“Sloppy,” one commented. “Good thing that neighbor noticed the marks when they brought her out.” 

Yeah. Jason Todd, the most observant man in the world. Tim tried not to laugh and moved on quickly. 

He’d already left instructions for Bart, who had told him they would have the body exhumed within a week. One sergeant was sent to the evidence lockers in remote storage to recover what was left. Several more officers would canvass the apartment building and the neighborhood, though none of them were hopeful about hearing anything interesting after this much time had passed. Sergeant Fox would take the lead at her place of work, talking to her colleagues and friends. They also sent out a note to the narcotics squad, asking if anyone there knew Irene and/or her supplier. 

And Tim? He would talk to Hakim Sanders. 

 

Somehow, he was ashamed to admit, he hadn’t imagined Sanders looking like this. The man that greeted him in the interview room was, admittedly, huge. His brown eyes, however, were soft, and his grip on Tim’s hand gentle.

“Detective Drake? Nice to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Sanders. Thanks for coming.” 

“Of course. If there’s anything fishy about Irene’s death, I want to help.” 

They sat down. After Tim had received Sanders’s permission to turn the recorder on, he began the interview with: “Tell me about Irene.”

“We met at work. I’m a team supervisor at Save-A-Lot’s in the tech department. She was a cashier. I noticed her right away when she started there, she was so… bright. I know it’s a cliché, but she really lit up a room.” 

“She sounds lovely.” 

“She was. Not always easy, perhaps. She had a bit of a wild streak, which I loved as much as I didn’t always know how to handle it. Like, one time, we were on a date, and when we went back into the car, she said we should just keep driving. I was panicked I’d be tired the next morning for my shift.” Sanders smiled. “In the end, we drove to the beach over an hour away, and watched the stars. Best night of my life.” 

Tim let his compassion show on his face. “You must miss her.” 

“I do. Every day. We weren’t perfect, but… I was falling in love, you know? And she was, too. She never left me in doubt about that.” 

“I understand.” 

“Except on her last day on Earth, we had an argument at lunch.” Hakim looked down, ashamed. “She made a comment in passing that she didn’t get why her mothers were so worried; that it wouldn’t be that bad if she started taking just a bit again. Like, nothing heavy, just a bit of grass.” 

“That made you angry?” 

“My father… he was an addict. I never even touched a cigarette or alcohol because of that, even if we aren’t very religious. She knew that, and had promised me I wouldn’t have to deal with it.” 

“I see.” 

“I thought I should be firm,” Hakim said, his voice breaking. “Show her what my boundaries are, make it clear that I wouldn’t tolerate… and then…” 

They sat in silence. 

This wasn’t a man who lost his temper, Tim thought. His motive for Irene’s murder was anger, a heat-of-the-moment argument that got out of hand and had to be what, covered up? By tying her up, thereby causing more marks of violence on her body?—and Tim couldn’t see it. 

Oh, he was well aware of the capacity for violence within every person. But Hakim Sanders wouldn’t kill someone with heroin over an argument over heroin. 

“Can you give me your detailed movements on the day in question?” 

Hakim shifted around in his seat. “Should I ask for a lawyer?” 

“You are not a suspect,” anymore, “but if you’d like, we can halt the interview while you call one.” Tim wouldn’t blame him. 

The other man thought about it, then decided: “Not for now. I had an early shift, then I met up with Irene for lunch, as you know.” 

Tim nodded. “Yes. And after that?” 

“She drove home and I went back to work. My colleague, Molly, had called in sick, and I had asked my boss for more hours just the day before.” He looked down. “I was saving up for a birthday present for Irene.” 

“Are there logs of when you arrived and when you left, including breaks?” 

The Save-A-Lot was a twenty-minute drive from the apartment building Irene had been killed at. Even if he just went in, killed her and left (and the evidence of bound hands told of a longer process), he’d have needed to be off-shift for at least forty-five minutes. Knowing modern supermarket working conditions, Tim thought that unlikely. 

“Uh, yeah, definitely,” Hakim looked confused. Then his brow cleared. “Oh, if you’re asking for an alibi—we’re under constant surveillance, including the earpiece I have to wear as shift leader. The recordings are kept for at least a year, in case of theft.” 

“That’s horrifying, but it’ll help you out big time,” Tim told him. He’d let the team that was currently swarming the Save-A-Lot know. 

 

“I think Irene was killed by her dealer. She had an argument with her boyfriend that made her want to shoot up, and something went wrong.” 

“Hi,” Todd said, “How are you? Please come in, Detective Drake.”

Tim did. The apartment was exactly what he’d expected from this building: small and sparsely furnished, with a small kitchen in one corner and only one door, presumably to the bathroom. His trained eye took in the bookshelves, the pull-out couch that served as a bed, the single wardrobe, and he crouched down to greet the cat that came up to him. 

He held out her hand, which she sniffed before coming to a decision, pressing against it and purring. “Well, hello, my lady.” 

“That’s Jane,” Todd said. “She usually doesn’t like strangers.” He sounded kind of put out. 

Tim kept stroking the cat just for kicks as he asked: “Am I right?” 

“Irene says yes.” 

“Is she here?” Tim got up. 

“I guess you don’t just want my summary, but a full questioning again?” Todd asked.

“Yeah. I’d prefer as little distortion as possible.” 

Tim expected Todd to protest, tell Tim that he wouldn’t lie, but he nodded, and Tim remembered: psych major. Right. He’d know what happened when witness statements (already unreliable) turned into a game of telephone. 

They settled down at Todd’s kitchen-slash-writing-desk, where he’d already set up his laptop, presumably for quicker note-taking. 

Todd gestured at a chair on the opposite side of the table. “At least pretend to sit down so he knows where to look at.” 

He sounded annoyed. Tim supposed he hadn’t been kidding when he’d complained about Irene as a roommate. 

With a smile at the chair, Tim began: “Let’s start with your name, age, and occupation.” 

“Irene Willemsen, thirty-four, and her occupation was, quote, a fucking cashier before Don Josh killed me, unquote.” 

And here they went. “Don Josh?” 

A moment of silence, then: “That’s the name she knows him by. Tall white guy in his early to mid-twenties.” Pause. “Yes, you have to go through it again, you heard us earlier.” 

“What happened?” 

“She texted him and they made an appointment for 4 p.m.” 

“Where?” 

“Her apartment. He lives around. She met him when she was on the streets.” 

“Okay, can you walk me through what happened that day?” 

Todd listened to what Tim couldn’t hear and took notes. “She let him in. She wanted to buy some dope from him. They had some chit-chat, the usual inane stuff, you know.” 

Most drug sales on a street-level weren’t exactly the under-cover-of-the-night, quick and anonymous transactions people imagined. Dealers held power; they liked to sample their own products frequently, and they liked making their customers socialize. Irene would’ve known that, would’ve accepted small-talk from the almost-stranger in her apartment. 

Todd wasn’t looking to see if Tim understood, though. 

“And then? Hm. Yeah, I get that. Urgh. He sounds like a dick. What did you tell him?” A longer pause. “And he did what?” 

Todd was typing even as he was looking at Irene. Tim could see ‘argument about price; he wanted favors she really didn’t want to give; was ready to just quit the deal.’ 

This had happened the last time, too: There had been a point where Todd forgot to be on his guard—likely forgot that Tim was there, even—and just focused on helping the ghost. His face had lost that hard edge, his eyes turning compassionate even as he asked all the right questions. Tim was beginning to suspect there was more behind Todd’s facade than yet another street-wary small-time thug. 

Tim liked that. Too many people in the force forgot that corpses had been human, too. Especially when that human had been addicted to drugs. 

Finally, when Todd seemed to be more taken with his notes than his witness, Tim asked: “Anything that could lead to additional evidence?”

“There should be a text conversation on her phone, setting up the meeting.” 

Tim shook his head. “The phone was never recovered.” 

Once again, Tim was pissed at the way the original investigators had just ignored this red flag. Assuming Collins had taken it to keep precisely that evidence from the investigators, it could be useful to try to trace it. Maybe he’d been stupid enough to keep it. 

Or, considering how, uh, superficial the initial investigation had been, maybe it had been taken and lost, or overlooked during the search of the apartment. Tim would sic Sergeant Ryder onto that once he was through the evidence lockers. The defense would be sure to insinuate that police was withholding this evidence, and they would have a point if Tim didn’t make sure to thoroughly check. 

First, though, they would have to catch this guy. 

Todd sighed. “Urgh, that sucks. She left, by the way, waving in your face.” 

“Good to know.” God, this was weird. Could he even believe Todd when he said something like that? On the other hand, what choice did he have? “How would you describe her body language?” 

“In the beginning, she was tense, annoyed at having to talk about this again. Like, yeah, she wanted you to investigate, but she doesn’t like thinking about it.” 

“I don’t blame her.” 

“She was evasive about the drugs. Made a joke about she knew they would kill her, but didn’t expect it to be like that. When she got going after that, it was all big gestures, including some pantomime I cannot gratulate you enough on missing out on.” 

Tim snorted. “Surely it cannot be that bad.” 

“You’d be surprised at how expressive people become once they’re used to no one seeing them.” 

“Did she talk about the sexual assault?” 

“No. And I didn’t ask.” 

Todd’s eyes were hard. Tim didn’t pursue the point. 

“So we have a nickname and a description,” he pondered. (Later he would ask himself: At what point had he begun regarding Todd as a colleague?) “Usually I would have a forensic artist sit down with her, but…”

“I can see the problem.” 

“My little brother is good at sketches, but I’d prefer not to call him in.” 

Todd had the good sense to not look too amused at that. “That’s fine. I, uh, already did a composite with her.” 

“You draw?” 

“Nah, but I got this composite sketch program—” 

Tim took one look at the software Jason was opening on his laptop and groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t illegally download an FBI program that’s for internal use only.” 

“I didn’t illegally download an FBI program that’s for internal use only.” 

Tim swatted him on the back of the head without thinking about it. “Shut up and stop incriminating yourself.” 

Todd grinned up at him. “You don’t want to see the sketch then?” 

“Of course I do.” 

The sketch showed a middle-aged white man with fairly common features in a round face. What stood out was the gap between his front teeth. 

“I know I can’t replace an experienced forensic sketch artist,” Todd said, “but in this case, Irene had seen the guy before, so it was easier. And it’s not like anyone else can ask her questions.” 

“You never met anyone else who can see ghosts?” Tim asked absently, already memorizing the sketch. 

“Nope.” 

“Can you send the composite to me?” 

“Where to?” 

Tim took out one of his business cards and handed it over. 

“What are you going to do with it?” Jason asked. 

“The usual. Ask around, post it on Twitter and Facebook, try to get the Gazette on board.” 

“You know, on Facebook you can target ads according to location and interest.” Todd hesitated. “Costs a bit, though.” 

Tim waved that aside. “And?” 

“There’s this dude, a journalist called Billy Jensen, who does these targeted social media campaigns. Basically trying to anticipate who might know the person on the sketch—can be a perpetrator or a Jane Doe—and target a post toward them. For a small-time dealer, geo-targeting this block could be very effective. He’s got some tips about writing them too, like making it interesting, humanizing the victim, mentioning a potential reward.” Todd pulled up a Facebook post. “Stuff like this. ‘On this day I shot a man on the intersection of…’ And they identified the shooter within three days.” 

Bit sensationalist, but if it worked… “Interesting. I’ll look into it. How’d you find out about this?” 

“Computer Science major, right? It’s not just programming.” 

Suddenly Tim had a very good idea what Todd chose his majors for. “So Psychology for interviewing witnesses who just happen to be dead and CS for…?”

“I was hoping to go into digital forensics,” Todd admitted, looking almost… bashful? That couldn’t be right. “Become a consultant.” 

Tim whistled. That was a rough job. The kind of material forensic digital analysts had to regularly view… he wouldn’t want to do that job. “Why not law enforcement?” 

“With my record?” 

“If we turned away everyone with an assault charge, Gotham PD would be empty.” Though Tim was privately still in favor of such a rule change. 

“Yeah, see, that’s the other thing—murder investigations, that’s all fine and dandy, but there’s a huge part of policing I don’t want any part of. Especially in Gotham. No offense.” 

Tim shrugged. “Fair enough. Alright, if we get DNA and it doesn’t match up with the database, I’ll try this targeted campaign, Mr. Todd.” 

“Call me Jason.” 

“Jason.” 

Todd wasn’t looking at him. “Feels weird, talking to you about the ghosts, and you don’t…” 

“When I’m on duty, I’m ‘Detective Drake.’” Tim wasn’t sure what possessed him to offer that. He was out of the door before Jason could reply. 

 

They got the DNA of an unknown male from Irene’s blanket. Despite Tim’s mental victory dance, it didn’t match anyone in a database, nor Hakim Sanders (who’d been swapped just to make very sure the defense counsel couldn’t offer him up as an alternate suspect.) 

They did a press conference where Tim asked the reporters present to share the sketch, mentioning it had been acquired from a witness in the apartment building. “The person we’re not looking forward is not necessarily a suspect, but we think he could supply us with additional information.” The usual ‘person of interest’ spiel. 

When nothing valuable came in for two weeks, Tim talked to Bruce and ran an ad on Facebook. Three days later, they had a name: Joshua Collins. A week later, the surveillance team grabbed a cigarette Collins had discarded on the street and sent it to the lab. 

When the results came in, Tim knew it was time to pay Jason another visit. 

 

“Is Irene still here?” Tim found himself looking around the apartment despite knowing that it was pointless either way. 

Jason shook his head, though. “Moved on as soon as you added the sketch to her murder book.” 

“They do that often?” 

“Kind of?” 

Fascinating. “Where do they go?” 

“No idea. I’ve figured out bits and pieces, but I’m not the fucking ghost professor. Ask a priest.” 

“Yeah, no.”

“Pity.” Jason led him to the kitchen corner and motioned for him to sit where he had last time. Books and study notes in surprisingly neat handwriting were strewn across the table. “Want some coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” 

As Jason prepared it (he had an actual French press, what the fuck,) Tim told him about the arrest, finishing with: “I’m hoping we have enough so that we don’t have to explain where exactly we got the sketch from at court. Not that I think that’s the part he’ll fight. He’ll confess being there. Because of the DNA evidence, he’ll probably go for accident or manslaughter.” 

“Manslaughter? Surely not if he tied her up. That shows intent.” 

Tim grimaced. “If I know that kind of scumbag at all, he’ll say it was consensual kinky sex, and that he panicked when he saw she was dead from an overdose she took.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

Tim agreed whole-heartedly. “That’s why I’m not working for the DA’s office.” 

“Yeah, I think I’d want to constantly shoot people if I had to watch that kinda shit.” Jason set down two cups on the table and joined Tim. “Still, better than nothing. Gotta be honest, I really enjoyed the quiet for the last few weeks with Irene gone.” 

“You owe me one.” And Tim was planning on collecting. Not on every murder investigation—most of these were easy enough to solve with enough time and resources. But cold cases. Jane and John Does. The kind of victims that had no one to speak for them. Tim would be a fool to let a resource like this go to waste. “Now, tell me about ghosts.” 


	4. The Case of the Playing Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason and Tim uncover a family tragedy and accidentally slide into a friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hi. This story is still alive, I promise. Thanks for your patience <3 
> 
> Additional warnings for this chapter: This is a rough one. It includes the death of a child, off-screen racism, off-screen suicide, and discussion of child sexual abuse as a possibility.

_Peter loves this game. Heini keeps bothering him, wants to play cops and robbers, but Peter prefers the toy train, and eventually, Heini goes away. Peter is a conductor, and it’s very important that he raises and lowers all the little bridges at the right times. Otherwise, they’ll crash._

_There’s a loud noise, and then everything hurts. Distantly, he hears his mother screaming._

 

“I was recently assigned a cold case that I think you could really help with.” 

Jason sighed. “Do you ever say hello?” 

Tim (or Detective Drake? Did this count as ‘on duty’?) looked startled, as if he hadn’t realized just how rude he was being. “Oh, sorry. Hello, Jason, how are you?” 

“…okay, no, that is even weirder. C’mon in.” 

As he ushered Tim into his apartment, again, Jason considered his neighbors. Someone was bound to notice that he was receiving regular visits from a police officer, even if Tim was always in civilian clothes. After Irene’s murder, most would probably be cautious enough not to do anything rash… but he’d need to keep an eye out. 

In the soft light of Jason’s room, Tim looked worn out. Jason had heard that there had been another shootout with one of the crime lords that controlled this city, with several casualties, both civilian and police. That kinda shit was enough to make anyone look tired. 

“You want a nap on my couch or something? I won’t charge you.” 

The detective waved the question aside with an impatient hand movement. “I’m fine.”

“Suuure.” 

“I got a case for us.” Tim didn’t wait for an invitation and just sat down, motioning for Jason to join him. 

Jason raised an eyebrow, but chose not to comment on the ‘us.’ “Yeah, I figured.” 

Tim opened his backpack and took out a folder, sliding it across the table to Jason. Wasn’t that kind of stuff supposed to stay in the police station to preserve the chain of evidence? With a mental shrug, Jason opened the file. The picture of a blonde white kid around the age of seven stared up at him with a smile.

“In 1975, Peter Schneider was playing in the garden of their house when he was shot. He was discovered by his mother about ten minutes later when she checked on him. There was no one else in the garden that she saw but the groundkeeper, and he was working some distance away and didn’t notice anything.” 

“What kind of people have a garden so big their groundskeeper doesn’t hear a shot?” Jason asked, then answered his own question: “The kind that has their own groundskeeper. Right. Carry on.”

“He _said_ he was a bit deaf, too,” was all Tim said about that. 

Jason began flipping through the contents of the folder. There were some crime scene photos that he rifled through quickly, the coroner’s report, the parents’ statement. The rest of it was interviews with a man named John Davis. 

“The groundskeeper,” Tim explained. “Neighbor said he saw a black man running away from the crime scene, which fit. The general feeling was that he interfered with the child and killed him to cover it up.” 

See, that was the kind of shit that made Jason so angry he’d been in jail before. “Fucking asshole.” 

But Tim shook his head. “I’m not sure about that.” 

Jason told himself to calm the fuck down. He’d been working on this. “What do you mean?” Tim hadn’t struck as the kinda guy to defend a pedo, but if he was… 

“I mean, he was a black man working for a grieving rich white family, and the lead investigator at the time was an overt racist.” 

“Totally unlike today’s police force, then,” Jason bit back, feeling off-kilter still. 

“We’re trying our best with this.” 

“Yeah, yeah. So this guy’s on death row?” 

“He died before it could get to trial.” 

Jason groaned. “In jail.” 

“No, at home and from natural causes, thank god. Not that it could’ve been pleasant—he must’ve known the police were coming after him.” 

“Yeah, I don’t imagine they were subtle about it.” Jason leaned back, considering. “So the main suspect is dead. Doesn’t sound like there was DNA evidence that could’ve brought a new one to light. What brought this case to your attention?” 

Tim sighed. It didn’t sound happy. “The victim’s niece. His older brother’s daughter, and the only family member still alive.” 

Jason frowned. “How much older was the brother that he’s dead now?” 

“Only a year. He killed himself three months ago.” 

“Oh shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And his daughter wants answers. For her father, but mostly for her uncle, I think. And she doesn’t believe in the groundskeeper theory after reading the interviews.” 

“Wait, she saw them?” Maybe it was a bit hypocritical for Jason to ask that while holding them in his hands in his apartment, but still. 

“No reason not to when the case was unofficially considered closed.” 

“What’s she done to make the police department look at it again so easily, then?” 

For the second time, Tim looked uncomfortable. “She… My impression is that she is an important supporter of our current mayor. Lots of fundraisers and donations, that sort of thing.” 

“Ah.” 

Honestly, Jason appreciated that Tim was honest about it. He could work with that. It was people that pretended there was nothing wrong with the way that Gotham was being run that pissed him off, among others. 

“Anyway.” Tim pointed at the interview transcript in front of Jason. “Read it, and tell me what you think.” 

Jason did, and his frown deepened the further he got through it. Finally, he looked up and said: “They got nothing.” 

“How can you tell?” Tim asked. He probably knew the answer and merely wanted to test Jason. 

“They’ve been threatening him with empty theories and five different imaginary witnesses for pages and pages now. That neighbor’s testimony can’t have been worth shit. If they had any evidence at all, they would’ve used it. Those aren’t subtle interrogators. And he hasn’t told them any detail they haven’t been feeding them.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. I’m not sure if he’s innocent or not, but I happen to agree with Miss Schneider that the case deserves an actual investigation. Unfortunately, every witness is dead.” 

“Which is where I come in.” 

“You do owe me.” 

“I guess I do.” Beside. Jason didn’t exactly have many friends left since Roy moved away. “Alright. You’re driving.” 

 

The mansion looked almost exactly like Jason thought it would. 

“Does no one live here?” he asked as the gates creaked shut behind them. If it weren’t a sunny day in February, it would’ve been the perfect beginning to a 1940s horror movie.

“Anette Schneider was the sole heir to her father’s estate, but neither of them wanted to live there after her grandparents died.” 

That explained why the whole thing looked so goddamn uninviting. Sure, the garden looked kept, if not loved, and the paint job on the house itself wasn’t shabby by any means. It just looked dead. Jason shivered.

Tim pointed at the house. “I figure that would be a good starting point.” 

They set out toward it. Jason, however, veered off path almost immediately. There was a small cottage close to the entrance, only hidden by some trees. He could guess who had lived there, and by the looks of it, he was home. 

Tim kept walking; it took four steps for him to notice. “Where’re you going?” Then his eyes found the cottage. “Oh. Davis?” 

Jason ignored him. There was a man in his mid-sixties sitting on a bench in front of his house. He looked like he had done this every morning for a century and would continue to do it for centuries more. 

“Hello,” he began, feeling a bit weird about doing this but soldiering on. “My name’s Jason Todd, and this is Tim Drake, a homicide detective with the GCPD. You wouldn’t happen to be John Davis?” 

Tim, coming to a stop next to him, gave an awkward wave at nothing. 

“Oh, nice,” the elderly man smiled. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in a decade, and now there’s two of you? Amazing.” 

“Tim can’t see you, sorry.” Though Jason would really like to know who the fuck else the man had been talking to. “I’m his translator, so to speak. He’s reinvestigating the death of Peter Schneider.” 

Davis’ face clouded over. His voice was heavy when he spoke. “That poor boy.” 

“What can you tell us about his death?” Jason tried to keep his questions as open as possible, taking a page out of Tim’s book. 

“Not much, I’m afraid. Only that his mother came running out, asking if I’d seen anyone, and then the ambulance arrived.” 

“What happened then?” 

“They went to him and then took me away for questioning. I gather he’d been shot, but they wouldn’t tell me by what.” 

It had been a Winchester Magnum according to the file, but Jason wasn’t going tell Davis that. Instead he asked, covertly touching Tim’s elbow to keep him from speaking: “Were you aware of any suspicions against you?” 

“Oh, yes,” Davis frankly admitted. “Officer Troyse had clearly decided I killed the kid. Made me quite angry back then.”

“You’re not angry anymore?”

“Me? I’m an old man. The murder accusation would’ve faded away, or it wouldn’t have. But a kid dying so young… that’s a tragedy.” 

“That’s why we’re investigating,” Jason told him. “To find out what happened to take him, and to clear your name if possible. Can you tell me anything else?” 

Davis shook his head. “I was out here. Peter was playing in the back.” 

“The kid was playing in the back,” Jason repeated for Tim’s benefit. 

“Yes. They didn’t let them play in the front, you see? Someone could’ve come in from the streets, even other kids, and that wouldn’t do for them rich folks.” 

“Is there another way off the grounds?” 

“Nah, it was all fenced in back then. Fell in by now, but it’s just woods out there.” 

“And you didn’t see anyone leave?” 

Again, Davis shook his head. 

“He didn’t,” Jason said to Tim. 

Tim asked: “What exactly where you doing?” 

“I had just finished those flowerbeds,” Davis pointed at a patch of flowers lining the path, “when Mrs. Schneider came running.”

“Gardening there,” Jason indicated the same area. 

“No breaks? No going inside?” 

Jason thought Davis looked a bit uncomfortable, but he said: “Yes,” and Jason nodded at Tim. 

“Okay. Thank you for talking to us,” Tim said. 

“My pleasure, boys. Come back anytime.” 

“Are you going to stay here?” Jason couldn’t help but ask. 

Davis shrugged. “It’s where I’m happy. I don’t know what happens when I move on. Do you?” 

“No.” 

“So why not stay where I’m happy? Maybe one day I’ll move on, when they sell this place and tear down my home. But for now…” 

“Well, thank you, then.” 

“What are you going to do next?” 

“Try to speak to Peter, probably.” 

“I haven’t seen him, but if he’s here, he’ll be in the back.” 

Jason looked at Tim. “He says he hasn’t seen Peter, but we should try the backyard.” 

Tim nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The old man waved and watched them as they set off again. As they left, Tim inquired in a low voice: “Ghosts can see each other?”

“As far as I can tell,” Jason whispered back. “Never saw them hang out and have a party, though.” 

“You should throw one. Invitation to all ghostly beings, the good stuff is at Jason’s place.” 

“What would I even serve?” Jason mused. 

“Vodka.” 

Tim’s voice was so matter-of-fact Jason had to laugh. “Vodka?” 

“Everyone knows you’re closer to death with each sip.” 

“I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with a cop.” 

“We have lives, too, you know.” 

“Somehow, you don’t strike me as the type for wild college parties with lots of underage drinking.”

Tim smirked. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” 

“I can tell.” When they were out of earshot of John Davis’ ghost, Jason asked: “So what do you think of his statement?” 

“It seems to confirm what I was thinking.” Tim sounded cautious.

“Ghosts can lie,” Jason reminded him. He suspected Davis had been, though maybe not about the murder. 

Tim grimaced. “Yes, and it’s not like I can evaluate their statements as they happen, can I?” 

“Oh, sorry. Next time you almost die, and then you can conduct those interviews yourself.” 

“Whatever. Let’s see if we can interview the victim.” 

 

“I don’t think he’s showing.” 

Jason glared at Tim. They’d been sitting here for hours, and it was freezing. “What gives you that impression?” 

Tim was unperturbed. “I thought he might visit around the time of his death; early evening. It doesn’t look like it.” 

“Could’ve told you that. Ghosts are permanent—either they are, or they are not. There’s no ‘always appears twenty minutes after midnight’ bullshit.” 

“You said they can move around, though.” 

“Yeah, and where would he go? He grew up here, and his family’s dead.” 

Sighing, Tim got up and brushed the dirt from the floor off his slacks. “Guess that’s a washout then.”

“Finally he admits it.” Despite his grumbling, Jason was glad. It would’ve sucked if the kid had been so caught up in what little past he had that he didn’t move on in forty-five years. “Honestly, I’m not mad. Have you seen horror movies? Nothing creepier than ghost kids.” 

The corner of Tim’s mouth ticked up. “But they can’t do anything, right? Or did you neglect to tell me about murder ghosts crawling out of wells?” 

“Not out of wells,” Jason joked. “The occasional space under the bed, yeah.” 

“Oh thanks. I’ll never sleep again.” 

“Speaking of which, where are we heading next?” 

“…that was terrible. The neighbor.” 

 

They had to leave the grounds to cross over to the house next door, Jason waving at Davis as they passed. 

“I don’t see how anyone could’ve left without him knowing,” he told Tim. 

“No, me neither. If it wasn’t him, it was someone in the house.” 

“Who was present?” 

“Only his mother. Well, and his brother Heinrich, but again, he was eight.”

“So…” 

“We’ll talk to the neighbor, find out what he saw. Maybe that’ll tell us how the perpetrator left.” Tim gestured at the house across the street. It was a bit smaller than the Schneider’s, with less garden separating it from the sidewalk. 

“What do you know about the lawyer?” Jason asked as they approached. 

“David—Dave—Williams. He was a lawyer, too, like Peter’s father, though not at the same practice.”

“Anything in that? Opposing foes in a court battle? Revenge for a conviction?” Jason snorted, listening to himself. “Sounds like a particularly bad Law & Order episode.” 

“Oh, there’s worse—remember the time they based an entire season arc on the Joker and deposited the idea that he was actually innocent? That was the stupidest thing I ever saw.” Tim checked the name on the mailbox. “Miller. A doctor and his three children, according to the registry. How do you want to play this?” 

“Did Williams even die here?” Jason asked. 

“Not sure. His obituary said ‘at home,’ but his wife had bought a house in a different part of town by then. Since this one wasn’t sold until five years after his death, I couldn’t find out if he had moved with her or stayed behind.” 

“Oh, I sure as fuck stayed behind.” 

_“Fuck_.” Jason whirled around. “What the fuck did you do that for? You just about gave me a heart attack.”

Dave Williams looked back just as wide-eyed. “You can hear me?” 

“Of course I can fucking hear you! You basically talked right into my ear, you creep!” 

“I’m not a creep! It’s difficult to remember personal boundaries when you pass through things, okay.” 

“What a great excuse. Look at me, I’m dead, it’s fine that I’m a _total creep_.” 

There was a weird sound coming from Tim. When Jason and Williams looked at him, he had his mouth pressed over his hand, trying to stifle his giggles. 

“What’s so funny?” Williams asked, and there was no way Tim could’ve heard that, but he gasped out: “Jason, you’re yelling at the air for scaring you. We’re on the street in broad daylight. I thought you’re trying to be _subtle_.” Aaaand he was off again, giggling. 

Jason rolled his eyes and turned back to Williams. “Anyway. Wanna go over to the abandoned mansion and have a little talk about what you saw there in 1975? We can totally leave him behind.” 

“Sure.” Looking amused now, Williams followed them. 

“So what’s this about?” the ghost asked when they were out of sight of any chance pedestrian.

“In 1975, a child was killed here. You were named as a material witness in the files,” Jason explained. “What can you tell us about that day?” 

“Oh, that.” For the first time, Williams looked uncomfortable. “I wasn’t… well. I wasn’t actually here.” 

“You weren’t here?” Jason repeated, both for Tim to hear and because he was genuinely incredulous. 

“Yeah. Sorry about that. The officer—don’t remember his name—asked me in front of my wife. Didn’t want to tell her I’d been getting my paw into some honey, you know? So I lied.” 

“You lied.” 

“Yes.” Williams began looking impatient. “I would’ve told him if he ever came back, alright? It wasn’t even a formal interview or anything. As a lawyer, I know the difference. But he never did, and I forgot all about it. Anyway, it can’t have been that important.” 

“Do you remember anything else about that day?” Jason asked through gritted teeth. 

“No, sorry.” 

“Okay. Thanks.” 

“That was it?” Williams asked, looking disappointed. “I thought you guys were ghost hunters or something. Don’t you want to at least do a recording?” 

 

As they left, Tim and Jason were fuming. 

“He would’ve let a guy die cause he was fucking his mistress, and then he’d have forgotten about it,” Jason summed up the conversation. 

Tim shook his head. “His obituary described him as ‘one of the finest legal minds in the country.’”

“Now we know why his wife moved out. How she stayed with him that long…” 

“At least we can now exclude the outsider theory with some certainty,” Tim reasoned. 

“Talk to the mother, then?” 

“Talk to the mother.” 

 

Of course, Joan Schneider hadn’t died in an ordinary care home. This was upstate New York; even the gates were gold-plated. The inside looked cheer- and soulless to Jason, but what did he know. No member of his family had ever been able to afford one of these things. Maybe it was nice. Probably would’ve saved his own grandpa if there had been that level of staffing around. 

A receptionist spotted them entering and smiled. “Hi, welcome to Sunny Spot! How may I help you?” 

“Hello, we’re with GCPD.” Tim flashed his badge, conscientiously giving her time to check the name on the ID that came with it. 

“Oh.” The woman looked curious. “What’s this about?” 

“We’d like to speak with the attendants who knew a Mrs. Joan Schneider. She died two years ago.” 

“I see.” She looked something up on her computer. “You will want to talk to Mrs. Han. She was Mrs. Schneider’s main attendant during her last year. She’s in; would you like me to call her down?”

“If you could just tell me where to find her, that’ll be enough. And maybe my colleague here could visit Mrs. Schneider’s suite? Not to search, you understand, but we’d like to get a look, understand the layout.” 

Man, that was a whole lot of important-sounding nothing. Still worked. 

“Of course,” the receptionist agreed and turned to Jason. “Second floor, room 14B. The suite is currently unoccupied, so feel free to look around as much as you want to. The elevator is over there.”

Jason just nodded and left. They had agreed that Tim would be the one doing the talking and keep prying eyes away. This was working better than he’d expected.

It was easy finding the suit; every corner was marked with arrows showing your choices, probably to assist the forgetful in finding their way. He knocked on the door labeled’ 14B.’ When there was no answer, he entered. 

“Oh, _hello_ ,” the elderly woman sitting in the rocking chair said. “Now that’s a sight for old eyes.” 

Jason grinned. That was clearly a lady who had enjoyed her life to the very end. “Why, thank you.” 

Her eyes widened. “You can see me?” 

“Yes. I am here to talk to you, actually, if you don’t mind.” 

“You say that as if you aren’t the most exciting thing to happen to me in two years,” she smiled. “Please, sit down.” 

Jason pulled out a chair across from her. “Mrs Schneider—”

“Call me Joan, please.” 

“Joan.” Jason did his best to smile and forget that he was potentially looking at a murderer. “Your niece Anette has asked the police to start a new investigation into your son’s death.” 

She shrunk in front of his eyes. “Henry? Or Peter?” 

Oh. “You know about Henry, then?” 

“They buried him next to me, Hans and Peter.” 

There were tears in her eyes. Jason looked away, letting her compose herself. When he thought she had, he said: “I’m very sorry for your loss. Anette was worried about Peter’s death, though.”

Joan sighed, a curious mixture of weary and fond. “That girl was always too curious for her own good. Or, maybe, for our good. I suppose it must be, then.” 

“You don’t look surprised,” Jason noted. 

“I’m glad.” She smiled at the surprise on his face. “It’s been eating at me for forty-five years. I thought I’d left it too late; that the way to clear John’s name has died with me. Talking to you is a gift you cannot imagine.” 

“John Davis is innocent, then?”

“Yes.” 

“And you knew?” 

“Yes.” 

Still the words did seem to want to cross her lips, so Jason asked: “Did you kill your son?” 

Her lips trembled, but she replied evenly: “I did not. At least not in the sense that you are thinking.” 

Jason leaned forward, keeping his voice gentle but insistent: “What happened, Joan?” 

“My husband had a gun. I thought he always kept it looked up, but he didn’t.” 

Oh, god. “And that day…” 

“Henry—he was stilled called Heinrich back then—he must’ve found it. When I checked on them a quarter of an hour before, they were playing with trains. And yes, they were arguing a bit, but nothing out of the ordinary. Just boys being boys, you know?” Now that she was talking, Joan seemed to have difficulties stopping. “And then I heard a bang and ran out, and there was Henry, holding the gun and looking completely bewildered. It was just one shot, but it hit poor Peter right in the end. He had no chance. I took the gun and told him to go inside, just to keep Henry safe, and I called the ambulance right away, but then I thought—what if they’re going to blame Henry? So I went and asked John Davis if he’d seen anyone.”

“What did you do with the gun?” 

“Threw it out with the garbage. The police never even checked.” She shook her head. “It was too easy, but that’s no excuse. As the only adult present, I was responsible. I see that now. But you must believe me—I wasn’t afraid of consequences for myself back then. I only thought: They’re going to take my Heinrich away from me. I’d already lost Peter—I couldn’t fathom that.” 

The shock of finding her child dead would do that, Jason considered. At least in the beginning. “I understand. But why keep it a secret for so long?” 

“My husband…” she shook her head. 

Right. They hadn’t really heard anything about him so far. Jason asked: “What did he think?” 

“He said it was the best thing for everyone.” Joan looked deeply unhappy. “The scandal could’ve seriously damaged his practice.” 

“I see.” 

“I’m sure if it would’ve come to it, he would have made sure that John had the best attorneys available to him.” 

“You would have let it come so far?” Jason couldn’t help but ask, judgment coloring his tone. 

“I don’t know.” Joan was crying openly now. “I want to say: No. But that’s the me I am now. Back then? I just don’t know.” 

 

When Jason met up with Tim in the lobby, he had a difficult time looking as if nothing especially exciting had happened. “The layout is just as we thought,” was all he said until they reached the car, when he dropped the bomb: “Little Henry took his father’s gun and shot his brother during play. She panicked and covered it up, and later her husband told her it was the right thing to do.” 

Tim let that sink in. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah.”

“That’s… sort of the best outcome we could’ve hoped for.” 

“Not for the other kid.” Jason’s voice was harsh. “Heinrich, or Henry.” 

“If they never talked about it… he must’ve carried that with him for the rest of his life.” Tim shook his head. “All for the pride of the family name.” 

There was a bitterness in his voice that caused Jason to look at him. “You think that’s what it is?” 

“I’m certain. They might have told themselves they were doing the best for their son, but in the end, all they were doing was protect themselves.”

Jason didn’t know what to answer. After a moment, Tim slammed the car into gear, and they drove off in silence. 

 

By the time they pulled up in front of Jason’s building, he was starving. It had been easy to ignore his stomach when he’d been in mystery-solving-mode, but now it was back with a vengeance. Note: Bring sandwiches next time Tim dragged him out. (Because there would be a next time, Jason just knew it.) 

Tim took a deep breath and visibly squared his shoulders. “Thanks for your help today. Without you, we wouldn’t have been able to solve this case.” 

“We found nothing that we have would hold up in court,” Jason pointed out. 

“It doesn’t have to,” Tim said. “All I got to do is talk to Anette Schneider that there is some reason to think that it was an accident that got covered up badly.” 

“You think she’ll want to know that her father shot her uncle?” 

“I met her. She struck me as the kind of person who needs the truth.” 

Rather like Tim, Jason thought. “And she’s going to believe you?” 

“I think so. I can talk about how there were some statements made in old age by her grandmother—hearsay, you understand, by witnesses who do not wish to be named. Then we release a public statement, saying that we’re satisfied John Davis did not shoot Peter Schneider and that all signs point toward an accident.” 

“Your boss will let you do that?” Jason asked, fascinated. 

“My boss is the one who gave me this case, he’d better go along with what I propose.” Tim hesitated, then added lightly: “He’s also my adoptive father, so I doubt he’ll be surprised when I get a bit creative.” 

“Of course he is.” Jason snorted. That explained the impunity Tim conducted himself with. Not that he was such a bad sort, really. At least he cared. Jason didn’t think Tim would just go home and sleep well after a case like today’s. It was that thought that motivated him to ask: “Wanna come up? I got leftovers and beer.” 

Tim looked surprised, then he smiled. It was rather lovely. “Sure.” 

 

“You know what gets me?” Tim asked hours later, well into his fourth bottle of beer.

“The pointless death of a child?” Jason was doing his best not to laugh at him. The formally so stiff detective was loosening up in front of his eyes.

“If he hadn’t died, John Davis would’ve probably been convicted for it. Like. We would’ve executed a man based on shoddy police work and prejudice.” 

“That’s the law for you.” Jason shrugged. 

“It’s not right.”

“You think Davis knew what happened?” 

“Probably.” Tim stared into his beer moodily. “He knew it wasn’t him and that it had only been Joan and Henry at home. Didn’t leave many choices, did it.” 

“Not that he was gonna tell us that. He seemed real reluctant even to admit there couldn’t have been anyone else in the backyard.” 

“We should develop a code,” Tim told him. “Like. If you think the witness is lying, put your left hand in your pocket; if they’re telling the truth, in your right.” 

“And when they’re an asshole, I do this?” Jason exhibited the universal jerk-off motion. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s subtle.” Tim snorted. “They’re not going to notice that at all.” 

“Hey, you know me and my acting skills.” 

“You’re not that bad,” Tim told him earnestly. “You had me fooled at first.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I thought you were a small-time thug, but instead you’ re—you’re—” Tim gestured at Jason rather wildly, then shrugged. 

Jason laughed and raised his bottle. “Well, I certainly never thought I’d invite a cop, so I guess right back at you. Cheers.” 

Tim’s bottle met his with a satisfying’ clink.’ He was lolling to the side a bit now. Jason gave it about ten minutes before he’d take him up on that offer of a nap on the couch after all. 

“Cheers.” 


End file.
